


You Can Stay at My Place, If You Like

by AstroGirl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Body Swap, Intimacy, M/M, Missing Scene, Sharing a Body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25411033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstroGirl/pseuds/AstroGirl
Summary: Before they switch, just for a moment, they share.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 117
Collections: Gen Prompt Bingo Round 18





	You Can Stay at My Place, If You Like

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Gen Prompt Bingo, for the prompt "Possession and Mind Control," although this one only involves the "possession" part. Well, sort of, anyway. Rated Teen just for some sexual innuendo and a bit of swearing.

"It's a good plan we've come up with, angel. It will work." Crowley holds out his hand. "Trust me."

 _Trust me._ Crowley has made a six-thousand-year career out of making dangerous promises, of whispering bad ideas into people's ears. _Trust me._

But Aziraphale does trust him. More than he ought to, he might have said yesterday. Today, of course, everything is different.

He takes the demon's hand.

"You can do it," Crowley says. "Remember, you already know how. Just like with the human, right?"

Is it? He isn't certain about that, but he nods, trying to remember what it was like with Madame Tracy. Was that really only a few hours ago? It feels like it happened in an entirely different world.

"Ready?" Crowley asks it softly, a genuine question. As if it's all right if he isn't ready. As if Crowley will wait until he is.

But they don't have forever. If the plan _does_ work, perhaps they will, after. But Aziraphale has to be ready now, before it's too late. "I think so," he says.

Crowley regards him for a moment, bare yellow eyes searching Aziraphale's face. Wondering if he means it, perhaps. He's always making Crowley wonder such things. He feels terribly sorry about that.

"Right then," Crowley says, finally. He closes his eyes. Aziraphale closes his own, not certain whether it will help or not.

Just like with the human, he tells himself. Just like with the human.

Except it isn't. He has to let go of his flesh first, this time. He ought to know how to do that. Incorporeality should be an angel's natural state, after all. But he feels his body's breathing speed up as he tries to relinquish it, feels its heart pounding, as if it's afraid to lose him. Or he to lose it, again. Oh, he loves his body. He loves it, with its warm skin and its taste buds and its sensitive hands. He wants to inhabit it another six thousand years, and six thousand after that, wants never to let it go again. 

_It's all right,_ he tells it, feeling foolish. Feeling shaken. _I'm only popping over to Crowley's for a moment. I will be back!_

And perhaps it listens, perhaps he's able to relax his hold a little, but it might already be too late, because he can feel Crowley entering, now. Can feel the heat and the brightness of him pouring in, a single, fluid, sinuous wave of _Crowley_.

For a moment, it feels lovely, and then it feels _terrifying_. They can't both be in here, not together, not at once! An angel and a demon? It won't be permitted, surely. They are... they are opposites. They probably _will_ explode, will cancel each other out, like, like matter and... Oh, what do you call it? Crowley would probably know. Didn't Crowley work in Astrophysics, before the War? Crowley would know, and now that knowledge, along with everything else of Crowley, is going to be lost because of _him_ , because he couldn't _let go_ , and he needs to let go, right now, he needs to leave Crowley's presence, needs to join with Crowley's body and he can't make himself do either one, and...

"Antimatter," says Aziraphale's mouth with Crowley's voice, and that feels so weirdly natural, somehow, that it takes a moment for Aziraphale to realize what it means. 

Crowley is fully here. Crowley is with him. And Crowley is _all right._

"Shit," says Aziraphale's mouth. "Shit. Sorry, angel. Sorry. I'll leave, we'll try again, I'll..."

He can _feel_ Crowley. Feel him in his body, every molecule infused with him. Can feel the celestial essence of him, wrapped warm and tight around Aziraphale's own. Can feel panic rising in him, can feel him thinking:

 _...hurt him, burn him up with my presence, oh Satan, oh God, oh_ God _, I've fucked it up, I've got to..._

It crashes over Aziraphale, a tsunami of desperate fear and overwhelming love, and, paradoxically, it leaves him calmer and clearer in its wake.

 _No,_ he says to Crowley, and he knows his friend can hear him. He clings to Crowley, holds his essence tight. Not a restraint. An embrace, perhaps? _No, it's all right. We haven't exploded or anything, look._

He feels Crowley soothing, stilling. Feels something like relieved laughter from him. Feels...

Aziraphale squeezes his eyes more tightly shut. Tears are threatening to come to them, and really, how embarrassing would that be? Inviting Crowley into his body and getting it all... all weepy while he's here?

But, _oh_. He's known, known for a long time, if he's dangerously honest with himself, that Crowley loves him. He's even let himself take that thought out and look at it, now and again, for the last eighty years or so. But it's one thing to carry a secret like that, tucked away in a hidden corner of your soul, and another to feel the truth of it alive inside you.

 _Don't go getting sentimental on me, angel_ , Crowley tells him, and for the first time, Aziraphale can feel, undeniable and unambiguous, exactly how little he means it when he says things like that. Can feel, as if the feeling were his own, how much Crowley longs to be the subject of Aziraphale's sentiment.

Well, no doubt Crowley can sense it easily enough now. Although what he'll make of it, Aziraphale has no idea. He scarcely knows what to make of any of it, himself. Probably it isn't really what Crowley wants at all, this love so badly tainted by guilt and cowardice and denial and...

And... anger? Wait, no. That one isn't his. _Stop it! No one gets to insult my best friend like that._

 _Oh, thank you, Crowley._ He infuses the thought with all the warmth he has to give. Inside him, he can feel Crowley basking in it, like a snake in the sun. _You really are very kind._

 _Shut up_ , Crowley responds. And, ah, so, _that's_ how he feels inside when he says that. Secretly pleased, and embarrassed about it. Aziraphale smiles. Crowley quickly takes over his mouth and scowls, and a moment later they both laugh, in one harmonious voice.

"Not that I'm not enjoying this, angel," Crowley says out loud, and Aziraphale can feel how much he means it. "But we do need to get you out of here."

Aziraphale opens his -- their? -- eyes. Crowley's physical form sits rigidly beside him, empty and still. There's something terribly beautiful about it, and rather melancholy. Aziraphale finds himself wanting to fill it up. Wanting it not to be alone. Which is silly. He can feel Crowley thinking so, too, but it's a thought laced with affection, with _my ridiculous angel_. 

He could get used to this, to feeling what Crowley thinks of him. Maybe later they can...? Would it be a terrible, a truly insane idea if...?

He feels Crowley hesitate, feels a ripple of worry passing through him. A fear of being known too well? Not, not that, not really. Rather, a fear of being judged. Oh dear.

 _Oh, my dear, I'm sorry if I ever made you feel that way._ No. That isn't quite right. _I'm sorry I_ have _made you feel that way. I know I have. I'm sorry._

A moment of hesitation. Then, _It's all right, angel. And, yeah, we can do this again sometime. If you want. I... It's... good. To be with you like this. Weird, I'm not gonna lie. But... Yeah. Good._

He's sure Crowley can feel his response, the embarrassing little flare of... What is that? Excitement? Well. There will be time to explore that later. Hopefully. But they have to think about practicalities now. They cannot allow themselves to become distracted. 

_Right, yeah. Can't play kinky angel/demon possession games if we don't survive._

"Crowley!" One of them smiles at this. He's not at all certain which.

 _Oh, go on, thrust yourself into my body. You know you want to. Filthy angel._ The teasing feeling Crowley is giving off is so familiar, so beloved. Aziraphale wants to put his arms around him, although that hardly seems doable right now. He settles for directing a blast of bright affection at him, feels Crowley's essence shiver delightedly in response. Oh, yes. He definitely wants them to do this again.

 _All right, I'm going to try to go over now,_ he says. 

_Okay, angel. See you!_

But he still finds himself hesitating, a thought forming slowly in his mind. _Crowley?_

 _Still here, angel._ And under that, amused, a brief, flickering whisper of _where else would I be?_

"If... If something goes wrong."

_It won't. Good old Agnes is never wrong, right?_

"Yes, but if it _does_."

Crowley sighs with Aziraphale's lungs. _Yes? What?_

_If it turns out we're completely wrong, if they're not going to use hellfire on you, if they're going to try to destroy you some other way..._

_Angel. They_ won't _._

He continues, doggedly. _If they do, Crowley, I want you to get out of there. If you can. Leave my body. Discorporate yourself if you have to._

A surge of distress passes through him. He assumes that's Crowley, but it's becoming strangely difficult to tell. He never felt this... this sense of oneness with Madame Tracy. Oddly, he scarcely feels the need to wonder why. _I'm not going to let your body die, angel. I know how attached to it you are. And I don't think you'd get it back this time._

_If you have to, and they give you the opportunity, do it. I'd rather be disembodied and have you alive._

_You wouldn't be disembodied. Not if my body still existed._ Crowley makes the implied offer so gently, with so much fragile hope, that Aziraphale feels his own corporation threatening to tear up again. Surely Crowley must be to blame for that. It almost never happens when he's alone in here.

 _Thank you._ He puts everything he feels into the silent words, and Crowley responds with no words at all, quietly loving him back.

They're going to have a lot to talk about, afterward. Or... or maybe not. Maybe they've already done it, just now.

 _All right. Here I go._ He takes Crowley's body's hand. He can't quite remember releasing it, but he must have when Crowley left it. He closes his eyes again. All he needs is to let go. To trust. His body is in good hands. As is his future. All will be well.

He flows out. It's like flying. Like falling. But it's all right. Crowley's body is there to catch him.

"You okay?" says Crowley. How odd, to see Crowley's concern looking out of Aziraphale's own eyes.

"I believe so, yes." He drops the hand he's holding, experimentally flexes this body's fingers and blinks its eyes. It feels strange. Strange, but welcoming. As if it wants him here. 

Crowley clears his throat. Or Aziraphale's throat. Whichever. "Same goes for me, too, you know?"

"I'm sorry?" He already misses being able to directly feel the emotion, the meaning behind Crowley's words.

"If they're not gonna use holy water. If you're in danger. Come back however you can." Crowley gestures at the body he's wearing. "You can have it back. Or... Or..."

"Or we can share?" Aziraphale wonders what the soft expression he's wearing must look like on Crowley's face. 

"Yeah. Yeah. We can share." Well. That would certainly be what the expression looks like on _his_.

Aziraphale reaches out again, and takes Crowley's hand in his own. Or vice versa. He likes the way it feels. As if they're still in some way connected.

"'Less it goes wrong for both of us, of course." Crowley says the words lightly, but the handclasp between them tightens, as if he needs the comfort of it, too.

"It won't," says Aziraphale. "You're right. It _will_ work. I have faith."

"What?" says Crowley, and, goodness, that cynical look doesn't suit Aziraphale's countenance at all. "That this is all still part of the Ineffable Plan?"

"It may well be," says Aziraphale. "But, no. I meant in you."

Crowley turns his hand, or Aziraphale's, and interlaces their fingers until they slot together as if it's what they were made to do. "In _us_ , you mean," he says. There is no cynicism in him now. He is as sincere as Aziraphale has ever seen him.

"Yes," Aziraphale says. "Yes. I have faith in us."

With one hand, he squeezes, and with the other, gently, he reaches out to caress the cheek in front of him. 

His own face, he thinks, has never looked so beautiful, or so wise.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Green Spaces (Remix of You Can Stay at My Place, If You Like)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26301397) by [DoreyG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG)




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